


The Morning After

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [40]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brooding, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is no longer high on pain meds. The opposite, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



It’s the pain in his hand that pulls him out of sleep. A dull ache that emanates from the cut in his palm and streaks up his arm, throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat.

For a moment he doesn’t know what’s going on; his mind is still half dreaming, doesn’t remember the bandage over the damaged skin, doesn’t tell him not to put any pressure on it.

So he does.

Athos hisses and jolts awake, and it feels like all those times when he was lying in bed, _almost_ asleep but not quite, frightened by the sensation of falling that comes from losing consciousness.

He breathes through the panic, eyes wide open and without focus, lines blurred in the early morning light. He’s lying on his side, facing the room, and the collection of books on the bedside table tells him that he’s in Porthos’ room, in Porthos’ bed.

Awareness comes and with it a certain calm; and Athos groans and rolls onto his back, his hand feeling like something alien as he gingerly rests it on his chest and stares up at the ceiling.

Then the memories trickle in one by one, heavy and sharp-edged and clear under the pain: the garden shovel; Aramis, fresh from the shower as the smile drops off his face; the trip to the hospital - the pain medication.

After that everything turns softer, rose-coloured and floaty: the smell of Aramis’ skin on the ride home; the way they kissed when they were alone; how he clung to Porthos when he came home; how Porthos tensed under his touch in the shower.

Athos blushes, can feel it spread all the way down his chest.

Porthos was right to stop him then.

He wasn’t himself. Still wasn’t himself for what happened on the couch, but that was different. He doesn’t regret that at all. It’s a memory free of remorse and self-reproach.

Athos can sense Porthos next to him in the bed to his right, still fast asleep, can hear his regular breaths, mingling with Aramis’, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to feel ashamed for everything else that happened yesterday.

It was the drugs. Mostly.

Because part of him does want to touch Porthos the way he did in the shower; part of him wants to sit in his lap the way Aramis does and just … be there. Wants to explore, wants to be coddled … wants it to be _easy_.

Part of him wants to know what it’s like to be underneath Porthos and feel nothing but bliss.

He’s heard them so often by now, and he can’t get the noises out of his mind, the way their voices break when they say each other’s names - can’t stop imagining what it must be like. But that’s what he’s done all his life. Imagining.

The real thing, and he’s loath to call it that, never felt right for him, not with anyone.

Watching Aramis and Porthos is wonderful, but in the end it’s just that. Watching.

Because he’s afraid to touch, sometimes, and even more afraid of being touched and not feeling like he’s supposed to - of holding on to consciousness and observation when he should do nothing but fall and feel.

Athos bites his lip and turns, moves closer to Porthos through the grey of the early morning, puts his head on Porthos’ shoulder.

Porthos’ arm comes up immediately, curls around him and holds him close, and Athos takes a deep breath, tries to forget the pain. He’ll have to tell Porthos that he’s sorry later, and he has no idea how to do that without betraying his own confusion.

If he’s not careful Porthos will be the one apologizing to him, and Athos can’t have that. Porthos didn’t do anything wrong.

Porthos is in fact doing everything so very right that Athos is beginning to feel stifled with it. As much as he’s afraid of Porthos wanting something he can’t give him, as much does he begin to chafe at the absence of demands.

He knows that Porthos loves him, that’s never been in question. He even knows he wants him. It’s the fact that Porthos never does anything about it that’s -

It’s making him feel guilty. Absurd, but true.

With Aramis it’s different. Aramis he can hold and feel his satisfaction, he can _give_ Aramis what he needs. With Porthos it always feels as if Athos is taking and taking and never giving anything back.

He closes his eyes and presses into Porthos, the way he did five, ten, twenty years ago. He still remembers the little boy who read to him, remembers the angry youth with the fresh scar, the young man holding his first foster child.

It was always so easy between them, even when it was hard. They were brothers, comrades, friends, family. Athos never wanted to make him moan then, never wanted Porthos’ voice to break over his name.

He hasn’t felt this broken in a while now, and he knows that part of it is the pain. He should probably take one of the pills Aramis has brought home, but he’s afraid of losing himself to the medication the way he did yesterday.

He needs to talk to Porthos. He can’t do that while he’s high.

So Athos stays in bed, safe in the curve of Porthos’ arm, resisting the urge to get up and make coffee. His hand is still pulsating with a dull ache, but as long as he doesn’t put any pressure on the wound it’s manageable.

The sun rises as he waits, bathes everything in colour, and Athos watches from under half-closed lids how the red, brown and green in the room come to vibrant life.

He spots a few trinkets that catch the light - a filigree golden dragon sitting on the book shelf above the door, wings spread wide, two slim golden candlesticks on the bedside table, next to a burnished golden frame holding a picture of the three of them, Athos in the middle.

Aramis introduced these things to Porthos’ room, and Athos likes how they make it complete somehow, likes how they fit. Just like Aramis himself fits them. He’s what brought them together, the one who made this happen, and Athos wouldn’t change it for the world.

Maybe he’s being too greedy. It’s not like this arrangement of theirs is making him _unhappy_.

He’s just frustrated. Impatient with himself.

Whatever this is, he needs to talk to someone about it, needs to apologize to Porthos, and ask him what he wants. They’ve always gotten by with saying very little to each other, because the basic understanding of each other’s needs was always there; but this is something they can’t hint around with grins and banter - isn’t something Porthos can make right with a few well-placed phrases either.

Athos will have to _explain_ himself.

The idea itself makes him want to groan.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos sighs and presses closer to Pothos, who promptly holds him a little tighter and makes a small noise of content in his sleep.

Part of Athos wants to tell him that it’s too warm, that this closeness to another human body is really quite uncomfortable and that he would be better off by himself a few feet away. Athos is getting rather impatient with that part of him lately.

Because Porthos smells so nice, and being held like this makes him feel so utterly safe that he can’t hold back a satisfied grunt. He stretches luxuriously, presses a spontaneous kiss to Porthos’ naked shoulder, and stills.

Porthos is awake.

Athos doesn’t know how he knows, he just does.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

“Good mornin’,” Porthos whispers back, and then he leans in, forehead to forehead, eyes closed. “You alright, love?”

“My hand hurts a bit,” Athos says.

It’s not what Porthos is asking about, Athos is quite aware. These evasion tactics will get him nowhere; he’s quite aware of that, too.

Sometimes he wants to hit himself in the face with a dead fish.

“That was quite some medication the doctor gave you yesterday, eh?” Porthos murmurs, tentatively probing at the root of their problem. Not that it’s really a _problem_.

But semantics won’t get them anywhere either.

It has to be a big fish, Athos decides. Maybe a salmon.

“I am sorry for my behavior under the shower,” he forces himself to say. “You were quite right to … protect me from myself.”

Porthos exhales, long and relieved, and Athos manages a little smile. “You were worried?”

“Course I was worried,” Porthos growls. “Do you have any idea what kind of strain that put on my self-control?”

His voice sounds gruff, almost angry, and Athos has to close his eyes as well, feels strangely shivery all of a sudden. Because he knows that it isn’t _anger_ that makes Porthos sound this way. “I did not mean to - to put you under any kind of strain.”

He moves, away from Porthos’ and out of bed, crosses the distance to the door in a few hasty strides. “I am going to make coffee.”

He slips out the door and closes it behind himself, very nearly flinches when he hears Porthos call out to him, asking him to wait.

Jesus Christ, that was moronic.

Athos slouches away to the kitchen, berating himself for his poor fight or flight resistance as he straightens his pyjamas. At least he didn’t flee the bed naked.

Once he’s arrived at the kitchen counter he gropes for his coffee can in the early morning light, fumbles it below the tap with his good hand and then struggles with the coffee powder. When it comes to the point where he has to screw the top of the can over the filter he stares at his bandaged right and frowns.

“Let me,” Porthos says behind him, and Athos steps to the side and away to stare out the window so he doesn’t have to look at Porthos in his usual pyjama bottoms and _nothing else_. The dog walkers are already up and about it seems.

Porthos joins him there after a moment, stands silent and tall before he opens his mouth to speak. “What’s goin’ on, love?”

“Is Aramis still asleep?” Athos asks back, gaining time, and Porthos sighs, pinches the base of his nose.

“Yes, Athos, Aramis is still asleep. What’s goin’ on?”

Athos hunches his shoulders, takes a deep breath. “I am … frustrated with myself. Have been for some time, actually.”

Porthos blinks at him in surprise. Apparently he didn’t see that one coming. Athos can’t blame him. He almost can’t believe he actually got out the words. The sensation of their aftertaste in his mouth is at once bitter and sour, makes him want to brush his teeth.

“Why?” Porthos asks, and Athos huffs. He really would like to kick something right about now.

“Because you treated me like a child yesterday.”

“But,” Porthos starts and frowns. “But you just said I was right to do that.”

He doesn’t even dispute the child-part, and that might just frustrate Athos more than anything else.

“Yes,” he says, already regretting that he brought it up. “And you were. I was not myself, was I? The real me would never touch you in that manner, would never admit to having any interest in your body.”

Porthos’ frown morphs into an expression of hurt, and Athos opens his eyes very wide, realizes his mistake, his poor choice of words. “Porthos, no - that was not -”

Porthos is moving away from him, just a little, and Athos rushes forward, puts his arms around him and holds him close. “Please, wait.”

Porthos stills, but he does not touch Athos, doesn’t hug him back. “I’m listenin’.”

“I - I want to kiss you,” Athos says, pressing closer to him. “I want to sit in your lap and - and not be tense. I want to lie in your bed with you between my legs and think of nothing but getting your cock inside me.”

The last few words come out a bit strangled, but they come out nevertheless. Athos is rather proud of himself.

Porthos clears his throat and finally hugs him back. “Do you now?”

Athos nods. “I want that. More than anything. I want to give myself to you. But I don’t … I don’t know _how_. And I don’t want to take drugs to get there, I don’t want to lose part of myself to be with you like that.”

“How long’s that been eatin’ at you?” Porthos murmurs into his ear, and Athos shrugs.

“For a while.”

Porthos takes a deep breath and sighs, remains silent for a moment.

“You know I don’t think you need fixin’, do you?” he says eventually, and Athos goes weak all over, has to fight the sudden urge to cry. “You don’t have to _give yourself to me_ for us to be lovers.”

“But you like sex,” Athos whispers. “The way you are with Aramis -”

“Is the way I am with Aramis,” Porthos interrupts him gently. “You don’t have to become him for me to love you.”

“That is not the point,” Athos hisses. “I know you love me. I do. I just want -”

“More?” Porthos asks carefully, and Athos sags in his arms, presses his face to the crook of his neck.

“Yes. I want to feel less like a burden to you.”

“Alright,” Porthos replies, his voice all business all of a sudden. “What do you wanna do? How should we go about this? And for the record: you’re not a burden, and you never were.”

Athos bites his lip and lifts his head to look at him. “Can’t we just … go for it?”

Porthos twitches against him and his arms tighten around him, and Athos gasps. “Porthos -”

“I think you don’t realize how much I _want_ you sometimes,” Porthos growls into his ear. “So no, Athos, we can’t just go for it. We need to ease into it very slowly, just as much for my sake as for yours.”

“I just …” Athos licks his lips, feels so very off-balance that it’s making him a little nauseous. “I do not want to feel like a science project.”

That makes Porthos laugh, breathless and a little desperate. The grin he shows Athos afterwards glitters with pleasure. “No? Then how about I blow you on the counter, eh? Would you let me?”

Athos stares at him, tries to come up with an answer between the hot and cold showers running down his neck, and Porthos stares back, his grin never wavering, never losing confidence.

Eventually Athos swallows, has to look away. “We can try that, yes.”

Because he wants it. God, does he want it.


	3. Chapter 3

“Just for the record: this is not easing into it slowly.”

Athos is sitting on the kitchen counter, legs spread, ass bare, and it’s not like he’s starting to doubt his decision, he just needed to point out the facts. Plus: his buttocks are getting cold.

Porthos pauses in the act of unbuttoning Athos’ pyjama top and shoots him a grin. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get this show on the road?”

Athos, who has never felt this squirmy in his life, doesn’t really know what to say to that. Porthos is half naked, he’s warm and familiar and relaxed, and Athos has really no reason to be nervous of him. So he bites his lip and tries to hold still, tries not to -

“You know you’re welcome to touch, yeah?” Porthos murmurs, leaning in to brush a kiss to Athos’ bared chest, and Athos’ hands come up and bury themselves in his curls without any active input from Athos’ brain.

This is new.

“Oh,” he hears himself say. “Oh, Porthos, that -”

He bites his lip again, uncertain how to go on, and Porthos chuckles, moves his mouth a little lower, dips his tongue into Athos’ navel - very nearly makes him squeal.

“Stop that!”

This time Porthos laughs, repeats the gesture, with rather more pressure, and Athos gasps, because it tickles in the most pleasant way.

“You are impossible,” he gets out, but by that time Porthos is already kissing the sensitive skin below his navel and pays very little attention to anything else.

If he’s honest, so is Athos. Porthos has a rather good mouth, and his beard is well groomed and soft. The way it feels against his skin -

“Oh! P-Porthos, that -”

Porthos freezes and looks up at him, and Athos blushes to the roots of his hair.

“That felt really good,” he forces himself to say, because the look on Porthos’ face is unmistakable.

Worried.

But only until Athos opens his mouth. Then it turns smug in an instant.

“I knew that.”

“No, you did not,” Athos points out, gasps when Porths nuzzles his half-hard cock. “Are you this intolerable with Aramis as well?”

Porthos hums and shrugs and rubs his cheek against Athos’ shaft. “Every love-nozzle is different. I have to get acquainted.”

“Will you not call it that when you are about to put your mouth on it!” Athos demands, his voice regrettably hoarse. “I cannot believe that you are acting as if -”

Porthos sticks out his tongue, presses it to the tip of Athos’ cock, and looks up to him through his lashes, as if he wants to know how Athos likes it.

Athos likes it very much indeed - until Porthos retracts his tongue, and clears his throat.

“You know, I’m rather excited,” Porthos tells him, his tone conversational. He rests his arms on Athos’ thighs and reaches around his ass, as if he wants to hug Athos’ lower half. “Remember when I told you I’d probably go nuts if you let me at your butt? Same goes for your love-nozzle, really.”

Athos’ heart drops onto a trampoline and somersaults inside his chest, overcome with helpless affection for this ridiculous man. “I just asked you not to call it that, Porthos.”

His voice transports his emotions, even if his words do not, and Porthos grins again, eyes warm with devotion. “Yeah, you did. Sorry.”

Athos strokes his fingers through Porthos’ curls as his heart wreaks havoc inside his ribcage. “I forgive you.”

Porthos twinkles at him. “Lucky me.”

He sticks out his tongue again, licks the head of Athos’ cock like a lollipop, and clamps his hands on Athos’ hips when that results in surprised bucking.

“Hold your horses,” he murmurs. “I haven’t even started yet.”

Athos really would like some spurs right about now.

“You’re a tease!” he gasps, his hands tense in Porthos’ hair. “A horrible, insufferable tease, and I -”

And then Porthos swallows him down, his hands warm and heavy on Athos’ hips, and Athos’ mouth goes slack, his mind blank.

“Porthos,” he slurs. “Ah, Porthos … that … you …”

He stares down, stares at that perfect mouth, stretched wide around his arousal, tries to breathe. He’s all sensation, all pleasure, and it doesn’t matter where he is, doesn’t matter that they’re in the kitchen, that they really could have picked a more comfortable spot to do this.

He’s here with Porthos, and it feels good, and he never wants it to end.

So of course he comes far too soon, unable to warn Porthos, and nearly falls off the counter in the process. At least he remembers to let go of Porthos’ hair when he chokes and pulls off, watches him out of wide, disbelieving eyes as he swallows.

Porthos’ chest is heaving, and so is Athos’, and he feels mortified all of a sudden, exposed and over-sensitive, at a complete loss at what to do, what to say.

He feels the same way he always did, after.

“Your blow-job etiquette is horrible,” Porthos informs him then, voice deliciously wrecked. “But I guess we can work on that.”

It takes Athos about half a minute to realize that Porthos is grinning at him. That Porthos is _happy_. The realization does strange things to his body, makes it feel light and tingly instead of apprehensive.

“Porthos -”

“I made you come,” Porthos interrupts him, ridiculously proud. “You _liked_ that.”

“I did,” Athos agrees, and then he needs another thirty seconds to let that settle.

And then Porthos steps forward and takes him into his arms, gives him a mighty squeeze. “God, I love you.”

Athos presses into him, clings to him with everything he has, eyes closed and heart wide open.

When he blinks he spots Aramis next to the couch, staring, slack-jawed and amazed. He holds Porthos a little tighter and smiles at Aramis, and Aramis smiles back, a pink tint to his cheeks.

“Did we wake you?” Athos asks him, and Aramis bites his lip, rakes his fingers through his hair.

“Well, I’m certainly awake now.”

Porthos twitches when he hears his voice, and Athos holds him still tighter, doesn’t want to let go yet. He feels so _needy_.

“We must talk about this, Aramis,” he hears himself say. “Compare notes. Does he still refer to your prick as a love nozzle? Because if he does, we need to make him stop.”

“Will you shut up,” Porthos growls, tries to get his revenge by putting a hickey high on Athos’ neck, right below his left ear. “I just _serviced_ you, you ungrateful cookie, this demands celebration, not evaluation.”

Aramis grins and comes closer, steps up next to Porthos at the kitchen counter. “He’s just trying to rile you up so you don’t let go.”

Porthos stills at his words, and so does Athos.

“That true, love?” Porthos whispers after a long moment of silence. “You want a proper cuddle?”

“Yes,” Athos whispers back. “Yes, that would be really nice.”

So Porthos lifts him off the counter and carries him over to the sofa, where he sits down with Athos in his lap - but only after pulling up Athos’ underwear and pyjama pants.

“There,” he murmurs, holding Athos in his arms. “That better?”

Athos, who’s suddenly rather exhausted and sleepy, manages a weak little nod. “Yes. Much better, thank you.”

Porthos kisses his cheek, and Athos allows his lids to droop.

This is it, he realizes. This is precisely what he wanted. This feeling. This comfortable sense of belonging, this closeness coupled with physical satisfaction and warmth.

And then Aramis joins them on the sofa, kisses Athos’ other cheek; and that is even better, is so ridiculously perfect that Athos might just start to cry.


End file.
